Page 29 of Stranded with the Resort Owner

Then his eyes meet mine—clear, steady, burning with something I can't name.

"It's not better, Amelia." He says quietly. "It's necessary."

The floor drops out from under me.

Because I hear it in his voice. The tension. The regret. The restraint.

He's not saying we're done because there's nothing between us.

He's saying it because there's too much between us.

Because what happened in that elevator wasn't just rough sex. It was a loss of control. A line blurred too far. And for a man like Lucas—who thrives on control and doesn't do messy—it rattled something deep inside him.

He's pulling away not because he doesn't want me. He's pulling away because he does. Because he wants it too much. And he's afraid of what could happen.

He turns and walks down the hallway, rattling off storm protocols, slipping back into business mode like armor.

But his shoulders are tense. His jaw clenched. His voice is a little too flat.

And I stand there, the echo of necessary ringing in my ears. Swallowing back everything I want to say and everything I shouldn't feel.

It's not a rejection. He is in a full-on retreat.

Not from me. From himself.

He's given me exactly what I asked for.

The top floor reveals no serious issues—just a few minor leaks easily tamed with towels and buckets. We fall into a rhythm, working side by side in silence. Not the strained kind, but something quieter. Heavier. As if the weight of what passed between us now hangs suspended between carefully drawn lines neither of us is willing to cross.

We speak only when necessary. Handing tools. Pointing out moisture. Agreeing on next steps.

Professional.

Efficient.

But every so often, I catch him looking at me—just for a second—like he's still trying to put the pieces back together in his head. The man in the dark. The man in the light. And where I fit between the two.

It's when we're taping plastic over the last leaky window that I ask—gentle, not probing.

"So why this place?"

He glances at me. "What do you mean?"

"You said you came here to renovate. Flip it." I gesture around us—exposed beams, hand-restored fixtures, the clear effort etched into every polished surface. "This doesn't look like a flip."

He straightens and wipes condensation from the inside of the window with the back of his hand. For a moment, I think he won't answer.

Then—quietly, "I never expected this place to become my life."

He gestures toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the view beyond—mountains draped in snow, the hush of white-blanketed valleys stretching for miles.

"I came here to maximize my inheritance." He says. "Renovate. Sell. Pocket the profit. That was the plan."

I wait, not pushing.

"What changed?" I ask, softer now.

His eyes stay on the window, the view. Not me.

---